


The Eye of the Storm

by Whreflections



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Chris Argent, Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beta Stiles Stilinski, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Fae Stiles Stilinski, Flashbacks, Full Shift Werewolves, Infant Death, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Derek Hale/Isaac Lahey, Omega Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stetopher is endgame, Therapy, True Mates, but this is petopher heavy, no infidelity, with bits of interspersed steter and stargent mostly in the past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-03-17 02:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18956104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: Up to a point, Peter was pretty lucky- born into a wealthy pack, and he met his mate when he was 16.  He co-owns his own shop with the brilliant half fae kid who became his friend first and then his pack's emissary; even his brief struggles with infertility don't keep him from getting pregnant with twins.  He has everything he wants-Until an attack at the store 2 and a half weeks before his due date lands him in the hospital, and he wakes up weeks later after blacking out and shifting to let his mind hide behind his wolf from realities he wasn't ready to face.  If he's going to take his life back, it won't be as easy as just going back home.  It's peaceful enough to live in the eye of the storm- getting back to it once you're out is another matter entirely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've heard people say before 'so this story is self indulgent', and I've thought I understood that-
> 
> but man, is this story self indulgent lmao It's set in a verse with a lot of fantasy layered on top of omegaverse elements, and it's petopher heavy- and also emotionally heavy, very full of all the emotion. It's exactly my jam, but I'm not sure yet if it'll be anyone else's jam...I just really hope so, because I'm enjoying writing it a lot, and I really, really hope some of you will enjoy reading it. 
> 
> You're coming in a point where Peter is also very confused, though, so it's okay if this seems like a lot of information at once- while Peter starts to piece things together, you'll learn more and more as you go.
> 
> Also, because reasons, Beacon Hills is a barrier island off the coast of Florida, with a lighthouse.

The room smelled like detergent, bleach, and his own anxiety.  The hint of saltwater coming from the fountain in the corner was like an aftertaste, or the faintest curl of smoke off a distant fire.  It wasn’t enough to do anything for him, but the fact that this woman he didn’t know had put in the effort to fill it and plug it in was something. 

Peter swallowed heavily against the pressure in his throat, his palm smoothing down the sweatpants he wore as if he could scent them by himself.  Even his skin smelled wrong. 

Across from him, the woman who’d brought him his clothes and given him over an hour to get into them before she led him here sat behind a grey and white desk, fashionably distressed.  On one corner, vines grew up the leg, ending in a cluster of morning glories draped onto the top.  The blue was startlingly bright, and easier to focus on than looking across at her face. 

“Do you know why you’re here, Peter?” she asked so gently, like if she didn’t, he might break. 

It should have offended him more, but then, he was aware enough to realize the moon had fully phased twice at least while he paced an unfamiliar room on all fours, so he wasn’t really in a position to argue that he wasn’t fragile. 

He should have nodded, and left it at that, but the detergent was burning his nose.  He could feel his fingernails itching with the urge to claw his way out of clothes that should have smelled familiar, and didn’t—his current life, in miniature.  Nothing was familiar, nothing was right, but he knew exactly how he got here. 

“Why did you wash my clothes?” 

“Your doctor and I thought it would be for the best.  We wanted you to have something from home, but we weren’t sure how you’d react to clothes that smelled like your mate—but now I’m thinking that might have been a mistake.”  Her voice was so gentle, even in honesty, in calling out her own misstep.  “It’s upsetting you.” 

“Everything about this is upsetting.  I don’t think you can blame it all on Tide.”  There was something missing behind the snark, but it felt good to sound something like himself, even if his voice felt raw.  Peter tugged absently at the hem of his shirt, his thumb dragging over the hole near the edge that had been there for years.  Cheyenne had only been a few months old when she left it there, too excited for bacon to be patient.  Back then, this had still been Chris’ shirt, not just a shirt he wore only long enough to get his scent on it before he gave it back. 

Peter’s fingers trembled; he closed them around the hem to stop it.  He could feel the edges of the hole with his thumb, worn soft by time, fraying wider.  “Chris didn’t bring anything for me?”

“On the contrary, he brought several things—but like I said, we thought it would be for the best for you to have a blank slate.   I’m sorry if that was a mistake.  I can bring you something else if you’ll be more comfortable—do you want that now?” 

“You’re not really interested in what I want,”  he said, and regretted it as soon as it left his mouth.  His road out of this place wasn’t going to be paved by anger; if he wanted out, he was going to have to cooperate.  At his clearest moments, he’d understood that even when he hadn’t been able to shift back.  Still, knowing it and having the full ability to hold his tongue were two different things.  He’d never once in his life been able to shut himself completely up, not without help. 

“Of course we are.”  She sounded so kind, he couldn’t help but look up at her—a quick glance.  Auburn hair, brown eyes almost golden light, brown skin.  A white ribbon around her neck, woven with what looked like living clover.  Whatever magic was in her veins, clearly she had a touch for the green and growing, but she smelled human.  “Let me ask you again—do you know why you’re here?  You’re not being punished, Peter; you haven’t done anything wrong.  You’re only going to be staying with us until you’re healthy enough to go home.” 

“I want to go home now.”  His fingers twitched, his jaw clenching at the force of the want as he swallowed against it.  God, he wanted it so strongly it made his mouth water.  The room was spacious, and still he felt claustrophobic, hemmed in by the walls and clothes that didn’t smell right and his own human skin he hadn’t felt for at least two months.  “I want my baby.”

“Allison is just fine.  I told you that when you woke up; I showed you her picture.  I gave you her blanket to keep in your room.   Do you remember?”

He remembered.  A still picture on the screen of her in the crib he’d watched Chris put together; the blanket with little yellow elephants his little brother had picked out last October that smelled, now, strongly of the warm, clean scent of a newborn human beta, layered against the scent of her alpha father, too mingled together to extricate one from the other. 

“Peter, you need to breathe.  I don’t want to have to sedate you again.” 

His nails had been digging into his palm through the shirt, leaving new holes.  He could smell the blood. 

He nodded once, tight, and breathed through his mouth until his chest expanded a little more with each breath, until his fingers felt less like knotted rubber bands and he could loosen them, and feel his nails retract. 

“I’m fine.  I’m fine; I don’t need to be sedated.”  It was, mostly, the truth.  He could feel the need to shift clawing at his throat; he could almost taste the strange not-quite-blood taste that always filled his mouth as his jaws and teeth changed.  “I just want to go home.” 

“And I want you to go home, but to do that, we have to make sure you’re okay, first.  That means you’re going to need to talk to me, alright?”

Peter’s nails pricked out again, slipping back into his palm.  It was hard to keep breathing, but he used the throb of pain to remind him to, and nodded twice, along with the rhythm.  In, out. 

“Okay.  So let’s start at the beginning again—do you remember what happened?  Do you know why you’re here?”

The last few months swirled around his head, a mass of images.  Sharp pains, sharper nausea. 

“There was an attack on the shop, extremists.  I was injected with wolfsbane.”  He could still feel the prick of the needle in the crook of his arm, feel his own teeth snapping.  The sunlight shining in his eyes. 

“You were.  Do you remember—“

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  His eyes closed, and the scents of the shop closed in around him—herbs and infused glass and magic and Stiles and wolfsbane and Chris—

“Okay; we don’t have to, yet.  That’s okay.”  His therapist leaned forward, arms resting across the desk.  There was still distance and wood between them, but it was the closest she’d come.  The omega scent of her wasn’t threatening, and still, Peter shifted his chair back.  “It’s okay—deep breaths.  Don’t think about the part in the middle—do you remember what happened at the hospital?  Why you’re here?”

He remembered.  The weight of Malia against his chest, her body not warm enough, her mouth still no matter how many times he licked at her throat, no matter how he nudged at her to nurse.  Allison crying, shrill in his ears like a siren, louder and louder, amplifying Malia’s silence until the silence was all he could hear.  White noise and silence, and the rumble of a constant growl that was his own, growing so loud and thick it felt out of body.  He’d never been so loud, not even as a kid, not even his first heat with Chris. 

He remembered a hand on his shoulder, and the taste of blood in his mouth. 

Everything after that was black. 

“Peter?”

His cheeks were wet; his palm, too.  The blood that pooled from the holes in his hands seeped into the shirt, filling the hem, the edges of the hole left by the puppy Chris had given him on their first Valentine’s Day—now an old girl at home at his house, more likely than not already watching over the baby Peter had held only once. 

His eyes squeezed shut, his head turned.  He wanted to wipe his face, but was afraid to move his hands.  The left had a death grip on the chair, like it was all that was holding him down.  “I attacked Chris.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t mean—it just _happened_ —“

“He knows that.”

“He’s okay?”  She had told him that, when he woke up naked and human for the first time since the hospital room he’d blacked out in.  She had told him, right before she’d given him the blanket, and Allison’s picture, and the lock of hair they’d clipped from Malia before they buried her.

“He’s okay.  He’ll have a few scars, but he’s okay.  He’s been healing well—and he never blamed you for a minute, not even when it happened.” 

“Then why didn’t he take me home?”  He asked, even though he hadn’t meant to, even though they weren’t the words he’d expected.  It was shit being an omega, sometimes; such utter shit to have your body so wrapped up with your heart that you couldn’t sift out one desire completely from the other.  He was as furious with Chris now as he had been at the hospital, but absolutely none of that kept him from simultaneously wanting him so desperately it hurt.  None of it kept him from feeling rejected—even though he was the one that had done the rejecting. 

“He wanted to.  He’s been concerned you might misunderstand, so let me make this clear—you aren’t here because Chris asked for you to be.  He has protested this violently every step of the way—in fact, he tried to get a court order to have you released over a month ago.” 

Despite the anger, despite all of it, the thought of Chris wanting him enough even now to fight for him settled into him like a sip of hot tea, sinking in and radiating out.  The near constant internal shake he’d felt in his chest since he woke up dulled down to a quiver, his lungs expanding a little further.  Chris had come for him; Chris trusted him, even though he’d turned on him like a wild animal.  It wasn’t a solution, but it was something. 

His nails retracted, his hand flexing out flat to press against his thigh.  “We have good lawyers.  If he did that, why the fuck am I still here?” 

Her laugh was soft.  In better circumstances, he would have liked it. 

“From what I’ve heard from your family and pack’s emissary, that sounds a little more like yourself.” 

This time, when Peter looked up at her he took in not just her face, but the name plate on her desk.  _Dr. Catalina Rivera_.  A psychiatrist, no doubt—likely one specializing in supernatural omegas.  Perhaps even omega werewolves; they had the money to get specific, to find him the best.  He said nothing, but his eyes asked her to continue.  It wasn’t much, but it was, at least, the calmest he’d felt since before the attack.  His skin still felt wrong, sure, but it was nice to breathe, and feel like he wasn’t seconds away from flying apart. 

“Stiles was here?”

“He’s been here almost as often as Chris—your nieces and nephews and your siblings have been by, too.  Your pack alpha, especially.  But you’re still here despite all that effort, because the state of Florida won’t allow the release of any supernatural being involved in an attack that may be a danger to themselves or others until they’ve completed therapy and passed a full psychological evaluation.  That means no matter how many times Mr. Argent takes the state to court and tries to claim this was a domestic matter that was completely controlled, it still happened in a public hospital and he has no authority to pull you out of here against medical advice—or even to visit until it’s been deemed not detrimental to your recovery.  Given that this is the longest conversation anyone’s been able to hold with you in over two months, we haven’t yet been able to determine whether he would be beneficial or detrimental to your recovery.” 

She said so much of it like it had been practiced; like she’d said it over and over until the words half lost their meaning.  If he had to guess, much of the repeating had been done to Chris—maybe even sitting where he sat now.  Maybe at some point, this office had smelled like him properly, and not just the faint hint of imitated suggestion from a fountain. 

It made him want to whine with need; it made his eyes hurt.  Peter blinked, and looked away, breathing deep.  Nothing smelled right; nothing felt right, but he wasn’t going to get out of here by shifting to hide from that. 

“Now that we’re talking, if I think it’d be good for you, maybe he can visit soon—but I’ll need you to talk to me if that’s going to happen, okay?” 

Peter nodded, his throat tight.  It was amazing, how little energy the burst of comfort he’d gotten had given him.  Already, he could feel his skin prickling more sharply again. 

“No more washing anything he brings me before you give it to me.  It’s invasive—“  The urge to whine rose sharper, and he quelled it with the pressure of claws against his palm, claws digging hard into the white wooden arms of the chair he sat in.  He hoped for her sake she’d bought something disposable, knowing how her patients might be.  “—it’s not your place to keep him from giving me anything.  If I want to reject it that’s up to me.”

“I’m sorry for that; you’re right. No one is trying to take your choices away from you.  I can let him know he’ll be in charge of your laundry for the rest of your stay—he comes by often enough.  I’m sure he’ll be happy to trade with us.  For now, I do have a couple things I held back, in case you wanted them.  Do you want one of them now?”  

For half a moment, the still angry part of him wanted to say no, but it wasn’t nearly strong enough to matter.  Angry or not, there was no pretending he didn’t crave Chris’ scent like oxygen.  His fingers twitched, pressing once more against the blood-wet hem of the faded black t-shirt he wore.  His palm had already healed.  “Yes.  Please.” 

“Of course.  Just give me a minute.” 

The chair scraped across the wood floor; her footsteps took her to the door, and out of it.  The door clicked closed behind her.  The scent of detergent was mellowed by his blood, but the anxiety scent was still strong, as caustic as the bleach.  The thought of getting up go to and dip his fingers in the salt water of the fountain was tempting, but not enough to budge.  All  he’d done was walk from his room down two floors to this place and he’d been led every step of the way, and still he felt exhausted, tapped out like there was still wolfsbane in his blood, though he knew that couldn’t be.  It had been gone before he’d ever left the hospital. 

Peter trailed his eyes along the walls, across her filing cabinets studded with magnets, down to the wide planks of the floor.  It was full of knots and swirls; it looked like white pine.  He tried to settle his mind connecting them like dots, constellations of wood rings, imperfections made into a picture—

The door creaked, and he jerked, a snarl cutting free from his chest before he could catch himself. 

“It’s alright; I’m sorry I startled you—is this better?”  For a human, her startle reflex was shockingly low—but then again, in her line of work, it probably had to be.  She hadn’t even recoiled from him, had only closed the door and politely stepped enough to the side to not place herself between him and the exit.  In her hand, she had a long-sleeve shirt, blue plaid.  Dark blue, to bring out the ice blue of Chris’ eyes all the more.  It wasn’t real flannel, thin, made for Florida fall.  It was too hot, now, for Chris to usually have been wearing it, but it smelled so strongly of him that he had to have been—so strong that the scent carried easily, filling the room and covering the bleach even though Peter wasn’t even close enough to touch it. 

His eyes and throat burned with it; a soft, rusty purr rose in his throat and cut off almost as quickly.  It hurt, but it was better; there was no denying it.  He stood to strip out of Chris’ old Blind Guardian t-shirt, dropping it across the arm of the chair with one hand and already reaching for the shirt Dr. Rivera held out to him with the other. 

It was cold, not warmed from Chris’ body heat like he liked, and part of him still felt the urge to fling it out of his reach—and still, it was better.  He put it on, half buttoned it, and wished he was alone.  If he had been, he could have buried his face in the cuffs of the sleeves and breathed unselfconsciously until he felt a little more human.  As it was, he sat back down, and leaned on one hand, the sleeve drawn up around his knuckles.  It looked almost casual, if not for the tremble in his fingers. 

It was all there—salt water and ozone, a scent so sharp and crisp and heavy he felt the crackle of it against the roof of his mouth every time.  There wasn’t a day from the time he’d first caught it to now that it didn’t make him dizzy with want, the deepest core of his instincts liquid and hot with the desire to please. 

It was all there, and still he heard himself growl like the sound of stranger.  It didn’t last any longer than the purr had, but it shocked him far more. 

Whether he was angrier at himself, at Chris, or at his therapist for not looking shocked at all when his eyes popped open, he wasn’t sure.  Her sympathy burned him; he scooted the chair back further. 

“I’m fine; I’m better.  It was nothing.”  His left hand tightened, again, around the arm of the chair—this time with the shirt still over it.  The cotton felt soft against his palm, thick and satisfying when his nails dug in. 

“You aren’t fine; that’s why you’re here—it’s okay that you aren’t fine.  You’ve been through substantial trauma in a very short period of time; you’re separated from your mate, and your newborn child.  You lost a baby.  You’re separated from your pack; you severed your connection to your anchor.  It would be absolutely shocking if you were fine.  No one expects you to be.” 

It was one thing to know, objectively, what the side effects of turning on his mate in his haze might have been, and another entirely to hear her say it.  A snarl ripped out of him, quick and sharp—so sharp he knew his eyes had to have flashed, and still she didn’t jump.  He had to hand it to her; she didn’t even flinch.  His hand went reflexively to his neck, feeling for the talisman that had hung there since he was 16—and finding only skin.  It had become so much a part of him, he didn’t even realize, before, that someone had taken it. 

“Peter?”  Her voice was distant, muffled.  His heart was louder. 

Ineffectively, he dragged his fingers along the curve of his neck again, down to his collarbones, back up.  He could feel his nails sticking, drawing blood, leaving trails.  There was nothing, no string, no seashell, nothing at all.   His arms shook so hard he could almost feel his bones shifting, unmoored.  If the talisman was gone, he had no way to find Chris if they were separated; if he had no way to find Chris physically, he should have been able to reach down and feel the connection to his mate—he should have; it had, for years, been as simple as quieting his mind, and reaching for the part that tied him to Chris. 

Now, it felt like scrabbling at a blank wall, or a sealed door—he could feel the weight of the shape of him, but it was slick as glass, like a rope that burned his fingers or a memory he couldn’t hold. 

A rush of pressure to his arm jolted him back out of his mind and into the present, his snarl rising high for a moment before it tapered off, dropping with his heart rate.  Dr. Rivera looked up at him, crouched to the left of his chair.  She had on welding gloves that went up to her upper arms, a jet injector device still hovering inches from his arm where she’d pushed up the sleeve. 

“I’m sorry; I didn’t want to sedate you again, but if you shifted back it may be weeks before you turned back on your own.  That won’t help your recovery.” 

His mind felt like a jangling mess, like alarms were still going off but there was, now, nothing he could do about them.  The sensation was horrifying, fight or flight triggered without the ability to do either, like a bird with clipped wings. 

When his breath had evened to match his heart rate, Peter swallowed.  He could taste the sickly sweet variant of wolfsbane on the back of his tongue, like a film.  His eyes flicked again over her gloves, over his half bare arm. 

“You keep that shit in your desk?  Do many of your patients try to kill you?”

“You’d be surprised—but you weren’t going to kill me.  You just wanted to hide.”  She stood up slowly, fixing his sleeve with her bulky fingers before stepping back, placing the jet back in a drawer, slipping off the gloves.  “We’ll go as slowly as you need to; I only want to help you, but the first step is accepting the situation you’re in.  You can’t start to move forward until you can do that—and part of that is accepting that when you rejected your mate—“

“I told you; it just _happened._ I was so angry—“

“— _whether you meant to or not_ , that action has certain consequences,”  Dr. Rivera continued, too calm for what she was saying, what she was implying.  She folded the gloves, and slid them back into the drawer.  Subdued, Peter could feel his wolf rattling around in his mind, like a dog left alone and tearing its way through the couch.  It was wholly disconcerting.  “Maybe it’ll be easier if you look at it this way—evolutionarily, if an omega rejected their mate, why would it be necessary to close down the bond?”

Peter’s finger’s twitched, pressing the cuff of Chris’ shirt closer against his nose.  The scent was so fresh, so strong.  Like a storm on the open water, carrying him out, drawing him into its depths.  If he closed his eyes, Chris was all around him.  His eyes stung like acid.

“I would never—“

“For the sake of argument—and something tells me you like to argue,”  she was, he had to admit, good at her job.  Even now, her voice was soothing.  “If an omega with a newborn child to protect and another they’d already lost rejected their mate, what would it mean?  What purpose would it serve?”

Minutes dragged before he could force it out, minutes of breathing in, counting her heartbeats and his own, feeling the wolf inside his mind wreaking havoc, impotent rage unwillingly contained.  “Protection, against a mate who’d turned out to be dangerous— _for the sake of argument_.  Christopher isn’t dangerous.”

His heart skipped, but the core of it wasn’t a lie.  Chris was dangerous, but not to him, and not to their child—at least, not now that she was born. 

“Part of you believes he is, or we wouldn’t be here.” 

“Part of me also believes Chris needs to smell like me when we go out in public or there’ll be omegas falling all over themselves to bend over for him—the rest of me knows the wedding ring and the scar on his neck is more than sufficient, and it’s been several thousand years since _actually_ falling all over yourself to fuck an alpha in the street was socially acceptable.”    

“You make an excellent point—the exact point I’m going to ask you to spend time thinking about between this session and our next one.”  Dr. Rivera settled back into her chair, leaning against one of its cushioned arms.  She reminded him, a bit, of his sister—and reminded him that he missed her.  She would have had wisdom for him, too.  “Our instincts are part of us, and they serve a purpose—sometimes one that’s so archaic it’s become nearly ceremonial, sometimes they’re important even today.  Other times, we’d do better to give ourselves a moment to pay attention to what they’re trying to say, before we decide the message isn’t needed.  The omega side of you isn’t sure about Chris right now—but it doesn’t control your brain.  It wanted to mate with him, but it didn’t make the choice to marry him.  It didn’t choose to have his children.  Biology made him your mate, but you’ve made the decision to choose him and _keep_ choosing him, when you didn’t have to.  You chose to go off birth control, and start a family with him.  And if you decide that you think what your instincts are telling you is bullshit?  You can decide to make him your anchor again; you may have to fight with your instincts over it, but in the end, that decision rests with you.  You don’t have to be ruled by your instincts.  That’s the difference between us and our ancestors.  We’ve evolved far enough to have free will.” 

The cognitive dissonance was so strong he was sure that at any minute, he’d be throwing up.  His wolf was spiraling, completely out of his control and yet also out of his reach, compartmentalized by the sedative she’d given him.  She wasn’t wrong; nothing tethered that part of him now—where the tether should have been, there was only a part of his mind he couldn’t reach, like it was out of service.  It didn’t feel like a bleeding wound, just a blockage, deliberate nothingness. 

The notion that he could fix that himself would have been comforting, maybe, if he was ready to acknowledge the problem. 

“Chris is my anchor.  He has been since I was 16.”  His jaw had been clenched so hard even his neck hurt.  “There’s something wrong with me right now; that’s why I can’t— he’s still my anchor.” 

“If that’s what you want, he will be.  But it’s going to take some work—and you have to be able to acknowledge that right now, he isn’t.” 

“I don’t have to do anything—wasn’t that your point? Instinct and free will.”  To get away from the sympathy in her eyes, he looked across the office, out the window.  The sunlight was bright.  “I want my talisman back.  You shouldn’t have taken it.”

“All magical items and anything that could function as a weapon are removed from patients for safety—“ At the huffed utter incredulity he couldn’t hold back, her voice rose, placating.  “— _but_ if you can tell me why you want it back and what it does, I’ll see about getting it cleared.  It’s a little sharp if I remember correctly, but you can do much more damage to yourself with your own hands.”

She wasn’t wrong about that.  The shift was far from him, at the moment, but he wasn’t sure how well he’d hold it back one he was alone and the wolfsbane had worn off.  “It’s barely magical; it’s a very specific location charm.  It’d be meaningless to anyone else.”  Even with the pain he was already in, the memory hurt.  “Stiles made it for me, before he was our emissary.  He made it so I could find Chris.”

“Find him how?”

“Not over long distances; nothing complicated.”  Peter swallowed.  His neck felt so bare, so exposed.  “I told Stiles about the first time I was aware of Chris—I had caught his scent and I knew—they say you always know when it’s your mate.  I don’t think anyone ever really knows what that means until you smell them for the first time and everything changes.  But, that first time…there was a huge crowd, and I couldn’t find him.  I was devastated.  When I told Stiles what had happened, he wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again.  Wherever he is, it’ll point for me if I ask it.”

“And you think you’d feel better now if you had it?”

“Considering I haven’t taken it off of my own free will since I put it on, yes, I think I’d feel better if a tangible tie to my mate hadn’t been taken away from me when I was locked up.”  As much as he hated the odd internal separation of his wolf from the rest of his mind, it was, at least, making it easier to talk without feeling seconds away from shifting. 

“I know it may not seem this way, but no one wants to hold you here against your will.  We just need to be sure you’re healthy before you leave.  I hope you can understand that.”

“I hope you can understand how much that sounds like trite bullshit.”  Peter leaned forward, his elbows digging into his knees.  He could, now, smell the morning glories on her desk, layered against the scent of Chris surrounding him, stronger than everything else.  “I don’t have postpartum depression.  I’m not insane.  As you said, I went through trauma, and I—“  The sense memory of Malia’s weight against his chest came back with the force of a blow, so sudden a soft sound left his throat, like air knocked out of him.  He turned his head to weather it.  “I’m not crazy.  I just lost control for a minute; I’m not going to hurt him and I sure as hell wouldn’t hurt Allison.”

“No one thinks you would hurt her on purpose—no one thinks that at all.” 

“So you think I _would_ hurt her on accident.”

“I think it’s very possible in your current frame of mind that you could, yes, but it would absolutely be an accident.  Still, she’s human.  It could be a serious one—we don’t want that to happen, and I know you don’t either.” 

“So essentially—“  Peter licked his lips, like he was tasting the rising panic the sedative wouldn’t let him fully feel.  “I’m trapped here without my mate and without my child until you decide to let me go.”

“You aren’t a prisoner here.  You’re a patient.”

“And what rights do I have, as a _patient_?  You said I can’t see Chris.”

“Not until we decide it’s in your best interests, no.”

“And I can’t see my daughter—you think I’ll hurt her.”

“I don’t think you’d want to—but no, you can’t see her yet.”

“Can I see Stiles?”

“If you’d like to.”

“I’d _like_ to go home—but like I said, you aren’t interested in what I’d like.”

Dr. Rivera’s mouth turned up at the corner, just a little.  The smile shouldn’t have looked friendly, not with how little progress he seemed to have made in getting out—but still, it looked friendly, all the same. 

“If I arrange for Stiles to visit during visiting hours tomorrow, will you please think about what I asked you to consider, about instincts and choice?” 

The inside of his throat felt as raw as the inside of his chest.  Sometime during the conversation, he’d pulled Chris’ t-shirt off the arm of the chair and begun to turn it over and over in his hands, the fabric twisting. 

“I don’t really have much of a _choice_ , do I?”  Even on his own ears, the sarcasm fell flat.  It was too thick with fear.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this weirdness so far; I really really hope you'll come back to read more of it soon- and let me know what your thoughts are about this part ^^ I'll be updating my other petopher fic next, but then more of this will be coming.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter smelled like summer, all sweetness and heat and bite.  While he was pregnant, the scent that Chris had chased since the first time he caught it had only grown richer; he couldn’t get enough.  Nothing was close enough, not even with his face pressed into the crook of Peter’s neck, drawing deep, greedy breaths.  Honeysuckle and lime, like always, layered against the nuances he’d taken on while carrying their children.  Mingling with his typical scent, the air was thick with the sweetness of his slick, leaking so freely from him Chris’ hips were wet with it, almost as wet as Peter left him during his heats. 

Looking down to his lap, he could see it glistening between their bodies in the low light from the nightstand, hear the wet sounds of it as Chris fucked up into him and Peter pressed back to meet his thrusts.  His ass was shiny with slick; he was so wet , so ready and open the first stirrings of Chris’ knot went almost unnoticed. 

Though the movement stayed easy, Chris could feel the pressure building at the base of his cock, and the rising heat that came with it, need so strong he could feel the hot haze of it down to his toes.  He muffled his moan in a bite at Peter’s shoulder blade, his hands splaying on Peter’s thighs before scratching slowly up through the fine hair on them, toward his hips.  He loved the feel of his muscles working, the tremble in his thighs that strengthened when Chris’ nails skimmed his skin.  Once was  good; another pass felt even better.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me; you wanted this bad, didn’t you?”

Even the movement of his mouth against Peter’s shoulder was enough to make Peter purr, his skin sensitive where Chris’ teeth and beard had been. 

“Yes,”  Peter panted, soft and low, so pretty Chris couldn’t help but push up harder into him, harder again when he whined.  “Fuck, fuck Chris, that’s good—just don’t—don’t knot me.” 

The swelling at the base of his cock was already greater than it had been a moment ago, just wide enough to begin to barely catch on his rim on each stroke.  Peter was so wet, so eager that it still wasn’t difficult.  The memory of how it would feel to knot him when he was this slick and needy made Chris growl, the sound of it so thick with lust he could feel Peter’s body sag against him.  The instinct to go limp and pliant for his alpha was too strong to fight, not when it felt so good to give in to it—but there was trust, too, in that easy acceptance.  Chris had earned it, and he’d die before he would ever betray it. 

He shifted his grip to Peter’s hips to move him forward a little, helped to hold him up at an angle that let him rest a little more against the pillows they’d stacked in front of them, across Chris’ lower legs, supporting the weight of Peter’s belly.  Shifting him forward so his back wasn’t pressed so close against Chris’ chest, it was easier to fuck into him with more shallow strokes, easy to keep his growing knot out of the way, stopping each time with the tempting nudge of it against muscle fluttering to try and pull him inside. 

“You sure you don’t want it, baby?”  Chris leaned forward, his breath hot against Peter’s spine, mouth eager as he licked along the line of it to taste his skin.  The salt of his sweat, the sweetness of honey.  “You don’t want to fall asleep on my knot?”  He wouldn’t have asked, if everything about his body language hadn’t seemed to want it so desperately—how wet he was, the little whine that had left him when Chris pulled back, how he clenched when Chris’ knot nudged at him, like he was aching to keep it. 

Chris could feel the warm jolt of Peter’s laugh all the way down to where they were joined, all the way up to his shoulders as Chris kissed along his back. 

“I always want your knot,”  he said it so fond; Chris could hear his smile without having to see it.  “But I think it’s going to be a few months before I can take it again.  They’re getting so big I feel like I have to piss every 15 minutes; unless you want me to piss on you, more pressure on my bladder isn’t really what I need right now.” 

“Is that meant to tell me why this is a bad idea—  cause if it is, you should know ‘your knot’s so big it made me piss myself’ sounds like porn I’ve watched—“

Peter’s laugh was rich, warm and pleased and free.  His head tilted back with it; Chris could smell his happiness.  He loved any chance he had to make Peter laugh like that, but there was something special about getting it out of him while they were making love, a burst of unbridled joy in the midst of ongoing pleasure, the intimacy of being able to feel the deep roots of it where Chris was buried inside him.  If he broke it down, he could’ve argued that his mate was comfortable enough to be at ease with him, but honestly, he didn’t need a reason.  It warmed him as much as it turned him on, a low, pleased rumble rising from his throat as he pressed closer to lick at the back of Peter’s neck. 

Peter arched against him, his hips grinding down, teasing both of them by nearly bearing down on his knot before he humped forward against the pillow again.  “Alphas are disgusting,”  he murmured, out of breath, and still smiling. 

“You know you like it.”

“I never said I didn’t, but we’re not in the shower, we’re in bed.  If you want to see if you can make me piss myself we’re not doing it here—oh, fuck, Chris, yes, please—“

Chris’ hand had slipped between the pillow and Peter’s leaking cock, curved up against the round press of his belly.  As close as he already was just from having Chris inside him, he wouldn’t last long.

When he came it was after Chris had already started to, his knot nudging against him in futile little thrusts, too big to slip inside, though even that slight pressure felt good for both of them.  The soft little sounds Peter made as he spilled over Chris’ fingers only ramped the pleasure up higher, and Chris gave into his instincts, biting down hard against the nape of Peter’s neck.  If Peter was human, he’d have borne Chris’ mark, there, but it didn’t matter to him that it never lasted; it never had. 

Peter was his; it was too plain to doubt, in everything from the strength and depth to his scent that had marked him as Chris’ mate to the way he pressed back against Chris even now, reaching to bury  his fingers in Chris hair and hold his mouth in place.  He was as eager to be marked as Chris was to mark him, his purr strong and steady at the feel of another pulse from Chris’ cock, filling him up. 

Chris could taste the faintest hint of blood, catch the brief scent of it before it dissipated.  There was nothing but silence around the sounds of their panting and pleasure, the scents of himself and Peter and sex heavy in the air.  His nesting instincts had never been as strong as Peter’s, but there was something inherently soothing about this particular type of isolation—the irrational and utterly real feeling that for a moment, he and Peter were the only ones in the world.   

“Don’t pull out yet,”  Peter said, his fingers squeezing gently at Chris’ hair, wolf nails just barely extended to prick at his scalp. 

Chris could recognize the need in him; it was as familiar as the scent of his contentment.  He hadn’t wanted Chris to knot him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to give up the intimacy of the tie, lying so close together they were one down to the matched rhythm of their breath, down to their heartbeat. 

Chris kissed the nape of his neck, much more softly than he had a moment before.  There was no mark left by the slight cut of his teeth; Peter healed too quickly, but he kissed over everywhere his teeth had been even so, soothing any imaginary soreness.  “I won’t.  I want to hold you.”  His low growl mingled with the sound of Peter’s purr, a natural harmony that always settled his nerves if they’d been frayed thin.  Today they hadn’t; he felt so good, so comfortable it was almost a high. 

It was usually easier to spoon Peter while they were tied together—but then again, almost every position was usually easier.  Peter didn’t usually have an enormous stomach; he was usually incredibly flexible.  Now, every movement had to be careful, braced with pillows.  Though Peter was the stronger of the two of them, Chris was his alpha, and that mattered to both of them, even if only for how good it felt to let it matter.  Chris took as much of Peter’s weight as he could while they shifted, moving carefully from the position they’d been in with Chris sitting up against the headboard and Peter in his lap until they were able to lay down comfortably, Chris spooned behind Peter with a weighted blanket drawn over both of them. 

Without the pressure and heat of Peter’s body around his knot it deflated all too quickly.  Chris stayed inside him even so while his cock went soft, lost in his mate.  Their kisses bled together, one into another, their lips barely losing contact even for breath.  Not even the way Peter had to crane his neck to kiss him could stop them, and there was no tension in him—Chris could feel Peter leaning back into him, the extra press of his back against Chris’ chest with each breath, the vibration of his purr. 

If Peter hadn’t squeezed his fingers, they could have kept it up until Peter’s kisses grew slow and sleepy, and Chris could listen to the sound of his pleasure trickle down into a slow rattle before it faded out completely. 

“I have to get up—I did warn you,” Peter said, though his fingers twined with Chris’, and he made no move to pull away.  He was still limp and warm against him when Chris pulled back, his gasp soft when Chris’ cock slipped free.  He had been so slick that even then, they didn’t stick together, the separation easy.   Still pressed against him, Chris could feel his full body shiver, see the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.  “If I didn’t have to work tomorrow, I’d say we should do that again.”

“I have to work tomorrow.”

“Did I say I cared if you work tomorrow?  You don’t have a boulder strapped to your stomach; if I wanted you to fuck me again—“

“You know I would.  Anytime; anything you need.”  He meant it, always, but it soothed his instinct to provide when Peter accepted it with a soft sound, leaning back into him to take another kiss.  “Is that what you want, sweetheart?  You don’t have to work tomorrow; you can call in.”

Peter’s smile against his mouth was chased by the nip of his teeth, a hint of fang.  Even tired, it stirred heat in Chris’ belly to feel it.  “You know Stiles is out till the end of the week.  There’s no one to call in to.”

“So, you’re the boss.  Close the store.”  Chris nipped at Peter in return, blunt teeth catching on his lower lip.  “I’ll stay home and take care of you.” 

“As tempting as that sounds, in a few weeks I’ll have more time off work than I could possibly want.  I’m not ready to give it up yet.”  They’d had this discussion before and he knew Peter meant it, even though he groaned when he sat up, even though his eyes fluttered closed when Chris immediately rubbed his back, kissing on the line of his spine. 

“Guess that means I have to work, too.”

“I’m cruel; what can I say?”

Chris nudged him to stand, gentle, hands still on his hips to steady him in case his knees were weak.  Sometimes, even despite his werewolf physiology, being fucked left him a little shaky.  Chris found it completely endearing, but he was meant to.  Peter pretended not to like it, and always smelled pleased.  That was endearing, too. 

When the bathroom door closed, Chris got up and pulled on a pair of pajama pants from the dresser, well worn and soft.  His second detour before getting back in bed was to the kitchen for a glass of water, with ice to the brim like Peter liked, even though he knew he’d likely only take one or two sips, now, and fall asleep.  It would sit on the nightstand and sweat onto the coaster, and in the morning he would ask for ice again, and Chris would get it. 

Peter was already back in bed when he got back, though the blanket was still pushed down, leaving him exposed.  He was naked, still, and utterly beautiful.

At the side of the bed, Chris pressed the glass gently into Peter’s hand, stroking one hand through the unruly sweep of his ruffled hair.  “Here, sweetheart.  Get you a drink; you lost a lot of fluid.” 

“And you’re oh so proud of yourself for that.”  Peter’s murmur was sleepy, and pleased, even with the faintest roll of his eyes.  As he took the glass, he nuzzled against Chris’ wrist in thanks.  Four sips, and he was finished. 

Chris sat it on the table for him, and crouched down next to the bed, his hand pressing to the swell of Peter’s stomach, shifting slowly around like he was scanning until he felt a nudge against his palm. 

“That’s my girls,” Chris murmured, a higher, soft growl slipping from his throat of its own accord.  It had been strange, the first time he heard a new sound out of himself he hadn’t recognized- like he was 13 all over again, learning fresh about the ways his body was changing overnight.  Now, he was about to be a father, and everything was changing again.  He didn’t just have the hardwired instinct to care for his mate; now, there was the need to look after his young, too, the desire to comfort them like he comforted Peter.  Calling to them to let them hear their alpha and know they were safe was an urge so strong and basic it was as automatic as the way his body responded to Peter when he was in heat.  

Peter’s gasp when the twins moved again in response was soft, his voice still sleepy when he muttered into the pillow.  “They like you so much.”

“They should,” Chris said, leaning forward to nuzzle against the stretch of Peter’s belly.  If he sounded a little smug, he couldn’t really help it.  It was such a novelty, to think that they would love him, and that would never have to change.  With his own father, the illusion of safety had been broken early, but he’d do far better.  Illusion wasn’t what he was offering. 

“They’re little traitors.  I’m doing all the work.”  There was nothing but happiness in him; even the faint annoyance he’d had a minute ago couldn’t hold. 

“I know, baby.  You’re doing amazing, and you’re almost done.”  Chris leaned in to kiss his belly on either side of the spread of his fingers, then further up when Peter tugged his hair and redirected him with a soft sound.  He felt the movement against his mouth, then, the second of the twins pressing close.  They were so big now; it was so close.  Everything was ready, and despite the pain and struggles of being pregnant he could some days almost taste Peter’s excitement on the air.  Years ago, Chris had worried that they’d never be ready for this, but they’d both grown up.  Now, the terror in him was dwindled, drowned out by certainty.  He could be a good father, for Peter’s children.  They’d be good at this together—and they’d do it again, if they could.  Neither one of them had said it, but he’d been certain of it from the moment Stiles had assured them Peter would conceive after the ritual was finished.  Part of the next generation of Hales on this island would be their legacy, his and Peter’s, a mixing of old blood never intended to mix. 

In bed, Chris curled around him again, settled close with the blanket drawn up tight around them.  Above, the fan whirred soft and slow, the room dark but for the glow of the nightlight they kept for Cheyenne, Stiles own fairy fire flickering up blue from an old lightning whelk shell propped up by the door. 

The ghostly light of it was so familiar, now, the play of blue and shadow across Peter’s face.  Sometimes, it would catch his eyes at just the right angle, and for a moment they would be on fire, their natural deep blue suddenly alive and flickering.  It caught Chris breath every time. 

Chris nuzzled along the line of his cheek, his beard just barely scratching against the faintest growth of stubble on Peter’s skin.  “I’ll come and take you out to lunch tomorrow; how’s that sound?” 

“Bring lunch with you; we can sit out front in case a customer comes in.  I hate to close in the middle of the day.”

“Okay.”  Nuzzling up, Chris kissed his temple.  “Hibachi?” 

“Shrimp and chicken.”

As sleepy as he sounded, Chris couldn’t bear to ask him what time.  Instead, he made plans in his own mind, and watched the light flicker across Peter’s eyelids in the dark until his eyelids flickered, too.  Then, with his mate fast asleep and comfortable, Chris buried his face against the back of Peter’s neck, and closed his eyes. 

 

\-----------

*****

\-----------

 

In the first weeks, remembering the last time he’d held Peter in their bed had seemed to help.  It was easier to remember, then, when the sheets still smelled like him and there was no dust on his nightstand, when if he woke up just right for half a second it would seem like nothing had changed.  Peter might be downstairs making coffee; he might have woken up unable to sleep and gone to work in his office.  With a bed that still smelled like his mate, there were a dozen reasons he might not have been in it, and for a moment one of them would seem true, until he remembered. 

It was harder, now, but still the memory wouldn’t leave him, even though he was long past being sure it helped.  Now, the thought of Peter laughing with his head thrown back against Chris’ shoulder seemed so distant a memory it only ached, his throat closing a little at the absence of his scent.  Sometimes, if he nuzzled deep into Peter’s pillow or opened one of his drawers he could catch a hint of him for a moment, like the scent of wild honeysuckle carried on a distant breeze.  It never lasted; trying to hold onto it made his head hurt. 

The novel Peter had been halfway through rereading laid face down on his nightstand; Chris had turned it over after he’d read it himself and the cover had started to curl.  If Peter came back and his book wasn’t in the same condition he left it, he’d give Chris hell.  He’d always been particular about his things. 

The late afternoon sun crept along the wall, cast in a slant over the closet door, half open, and Allison’s crib.  The blue and white chair that Peter hated; Cheyenne’s bed crammed into the corner, with one of Peter’s blankets rumpled on it.  Cheyenne herself, spilling half off the bed, and onto the floor.  Her body bent like melting wax—from his angle, Chris could only see the curve of her speckled ribs, a single big foot, and the tip of one of her magnificent coonhound ears. 

She had slept a lot even in her middle years, and more as she aged, but with Peter gone she rarely left her bed.  Even so, Chris would have been willing to bet she was getting less sleep than she had before.  Almost every time he looked at her, her eyes were open.  Most of the time, they were on the door, waiting.  It would have broken his heart a hell of a lot more if he didn’t feel too much kinship with her to have much sentiment to spare.  As Peter’s familiar, she was about as at home without him as Chris was; protecting Allison gave them both something to do, but she was asleep over half the day. 

Cheyenne watched the door; Chris watched the wall. 

The rattle of his phone against the change on his nightstand shook him out of his thoughts, and he rolled over quick to pick it up.  _Cape Coral Recovery Center_ scrolled slow across the screen, ticking up his heart rate with a jump he could feel in his throat.  They rarely called; he called often enough they never had time to need to. 

Chris swiped his thumb across the screen, and pulled his phone to his ear.  “Argent.”  It came out a little gravelly, and he cleared his throat.  From the corner, he heard the clink of Cheyenne’s tags as she raised her head in interest. 

“Chris, it’s Dr. Rivera.  I wanted to let you know Peter shifted back this afternoon, and I was able to have my first session with him.”

It was exactly the news he’d waited for since they’d locked Peter up, and still the sensation that swept over him was strange, a chill that didn’t feel enough like relief, a taste in his mouth that was too close to dread.  Even so, his heart was beating hard as he sat up properly.  The skin pulled along the edges of the still healing gashes on his chest with the movement, a sharp jab layered over a dull ache that never left.  He’d grown used to it.

“What did you tell him?  Did he ask for me?”

“I told him everything; his mind has tried to hide from the reality of the trauma he’s been through, but it’s never been our intention to help shield him from the truth.  That won’t help him get better.”

“Locking him up away from his pack won’t help him get better either, but you sure as hell never showed any reluctance to do that,” Chris said, bitter and brittle.  He wanted more and he knew he’d have to go through her to get it; he knew it wasn’t the time to pick an argument, and he still couldn’t help himself. 

She was one of the best in south Florida, supposedly, and placing him there under her care kept Peter fairly close to home, but Chris loathed her.  It wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit.  What had happened to Peter wasn’t fair, either; none of this was fair.  She might be a good doctor, but she was the face of a wall between him and his mate that shouldn’t be there, a wall he’d thrown himself against and failed to break.  He hated her for it; it wasn’t rational, but it was honest.  If he was like Peter, he would have said it came from his wolf; for himself, he called it gut instinct. 

“While I couldn’t agree more that isolation is dangerous for a wolf, particularly for an omega, there are circumstances where it _is_ for the best on a temporary basis.  Until he’s mentally stable and in control, it won’t be in his best interests to be with his pack.  We’ve been over this; Alpha Hale understands—“

“Derek’s going along with this as politely as he can because he knows we have no choice, and it’s up to him to keep the pack calm.  I don’t have to pretend this isn’t bullshit.”

It was soft, little more than a breath against the phone, but the sound she made came too close to laughter. 

It rankled, and he couldn’t help but snap.  “You think this is funny?  We have this conversation every time I talk to you; I’m aware of that, but—“

“It’s not that, Chris—I’m sorry; I wasn’t laughing at you.  It’s just that, whether you’re aware of it or not, in some ways, you and Peter sound very like each other.  I had no reference before, but I do now.”

It hurt like a drop in his stomach, worse than the ache in his chest.  If he pressed his palm hard enough against his forehead, he could almost see the way rage looked flashing in Peter’s eyes, just before the quick and clever bite of a cutting retort.  “Yeah, we should.  We’ve been together for 19 years.”  Still, as similar as they might be at times, Peter was sharper, and quicker.  Chris could be blunt, and relentless.  Dr. Rivera knew that, now, too. 

“He did ask for you,” she said, softer in a way that mimicked sympathy.  Maybe it was genuine; it didn’t soothe him.  “I told him when we can be sure it isn’t detrimental to his recovery—“

“So you told him no?  He outright asked for me, and you told him—“  He’d gotten loud, more than he meant to.  From the crib, Allison stirred with a questioning noise that had Cheyenne on her feet.  In the hope of not waking her fully, Chris cut himself off and ducked out into the hallway. 

“I told him not _yet_.  It’s the same thing I’ve told you before, and it’s what I’ll keep telling you until I’ve had more chance to work with him.  He _did_ ask for you, and he wanted something from you that he seemed to initially react positively to—but he showed signs of near rejection not half a minute later, and he’s struggling so much with his shift he wouldn’t be able to maintain human form for more than an hour or so without sedation.  I know you want to help him— but right now he needs help he can’t get at home.  However much you disagree and however much you hate me for it, I hope you can understand that I don’t have anything against you.  This isn’t personal, and I’m not trying to separate you.  On the contrary; from everything I’ve seen you’re a devoted mate, and nothing I learned today from Peter indicated otherwise.” 

At the end of the hall, Chris took the side door out onto the smallest porch.  The sun warmed wood was just shaded enough to feel good on his bare feet; the humid warmth of the air an equally welcome pressure on his chest.  He breathed deep against it, taking in the burn of the motion, the faint sting of the salt in the air. 

With his head clearer, he spoke more quietly, though there was, now, no one to disrupt but the anoles, sunning on the railings and skittering across the palms.  “If there wasn’t a _but_ coming to all of that, you’d be telling me I could come see him right now.”

“I know you want to see him, and I know he wants to see you, but the reality of the situation is that the last time you two were in a room together, he slashed open your chest and tried to rip out your throat.  He could have killed you—and I didn’t make it that blunt for him both because I’m sure he knows and because of his fragile state, but with you I don’t have to mince words.”

“I thought we weren’t shielding him?”

“We aren’t shielding him from reality, but there’s a time and place for certain levels of it.  He knows he attacked you; he doesn’t need the gruesome details until he’s dealt with the fact that it happened at all.” 

“It wasn’t _that_ gruesome; I’ve had worse.”

“No, you haven’t.  Not even in your line of work, not based on the hospital report.” 

She wasn’t wrong, technically, but it all felt so very different to experience it.  If Peter ever remembered it, he knew there’d be a haze around the entire event, but Chris didn’t carry that fog.  For him it was vivid and raw, the slash of claws going deep, the visceral, wet sound of Peter’s teeth digging in down to the muscle first on his arm, then just under his throat.  None of it was muted, but none of it had given him nightmares; none of it plagued him.  The physical aches were nothing; they’d fade.  Even wounds from a mate healed, eventually. 

When his mind tormented him in the middle of the night, it wasn’t the sound of his blood squelching under teeth, the sight of his own blood pouring down his mate’s chin.  It was Peter before he’d touched him, the heartbreakingly soft trill in his throat that still managed to sound hopeful no matter how many times Malia didn’t respond to it; the quiet, wet sound of his tongue flicking out, licking at her neck, encouraging her to cry. 

It was the funeral, Derek curling into place the last of the wolfsbane around her grave to give them all a glimpse at the form Malia Hale would have had, if she’d ever lived long enough to take it.  He’d held himself together well, until then, but there was something about how much smaller she looked in the ground like that that he just couldn’t bear. 

Even as soft as her fur was, her body was stiff when he had picked her up to bury his face against her coat, sobbing into her shoulder, uncaring of his audience.  It wasn’t comforting.  She felt dead, and cold, and every time he dreamed of it, it needed no embellishment to make it a nightmare.  The truth had been hard enough. 

“I’m not afraid of him,” Chris said.  “I never have been.  If he bites me, he bites me.  This was the worst, but it’s happened a couple times before, when we were younger.  He’d say different, but his wolf has never completely trusted me, not with—with what I am.  This just exacerbated it, but we can work it out.  If you just let him come home, we’ll be fine.  I promise.  If he asks for me to give him space, I’ll do that, but he won’t.  I know him; I know him better than I know anyone.”

“I don’t doubt that you do, but he needs to have a good foundation at least on his recovery before he comes back home.  I want to release him, and I’ll do that as soon as possible—but he has to be able to accept that he doesn’t have an anchor and he’ll need medication until he sets an anchor again, and he needs to begin to work through his trauma.  By the time he goes home, he has to be stable enough that what happened at the hospital isn’t in danger of happening again.  If he’d been holding Allison when he turned on you—“

“I know.  I know.”  The urge to say _he wouldn’t have_ was strong, but the words couldn’t make it to his throat.  The rage in Peter’s eyes had been unmatched, their gleam so brilliant they were nearly white.  If his wolf had thought there was a risk to the only baby he had left, it would have snapped—whatever it took.  He didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to see the danger, but he didn’t have to believe it would come to that, either.  If they needed to keep him away from her for a while, as much as it might hurt, they could do it at home.  Derek would help him; Stiles would help him.

It was all a fantasy; he’d tried to propose that in court and been shot down. 

Chris leaned on the railing, arms crossed.  On the carved wooden pineapple top of the nearest newel post, a brown anole puffed his chin out at him, the flare sunset red.  “So he’s conscious, and he wants me there, but I can’t come see him, and you don’t think that’s going to stress him badly enough hamper his recovery.”   He meant for there to be more bite; all he sounded, now, was tired. 

“If it seems imperative that he see you, you’ll be the first to know.  For now, if you could bring him some fresh, scented laundry from home, and a blanket, it’ll help him feel more comfortable here—and yes, I am aware that you made the same argument when you first brought belongings by for him, but you might have been wrong, and we needed to follow our medical opinion.  It’s a good sign that he’s progressing in that respect a little more quickly than he might have.” 

Chris bit back his argument, and nodded though she couldn’t see.  The movement sparked the anole into a nodding fit of his own, flaring his dewlap out so far it nearly stretched past his chin.  “Yeah, I’ll get a few things packed and bring it over now.”

“He has something for now; believe it or not, I planned for being wrong.” 

“If I were you, I’d plan on it again.”

“That’s my job; I’m here to advocate for my patient.  I can’t do that if I don’t hope for the best case, even if I’m preparing for the worst.”  She sounded, as always, nice enough, but entirely too relaxed for a situation that left Chris’ skin crawling.  “Come tomorrow.  He expressed an interest in Stiles coming to visit, and I think it’d be wise to reintroduce him to the pack slowly—“

“So _I_ can’t visit, but _Stiles_ can visit?”  He didn’t mean it to be sharp; truly he didn’t, but it was sudden, and it stung.  Everything stung so much more easily now; he was far too raw, too sensitive all over, inside and out. 

On the other end of the line, for a moment Dr. Rivera was so quiet he nearly cursed.  Her internal debate was nearly audible.  “Is there something I should know, about Stiles, beyond his position in the pack?  Peter said he’s his best friend.”

“He is.”  That much was solid; accurate, and easy to offer.  He wasn’t exactly surprised that she didn’t leave it there. 

“And?”

“And—“  Against the inside of his wrist, the monitor he wore flared with warmth, red light pulsing out from the flat rock pulled from the ocean, paired with Stiles’ magic to the mobile of shells that hung over Allison’s crib.  Like, she hadn’t fully settled from where he’d woken her, not even with Cheyenne nearby.  “Allison’s awake I have to go—but it’s—it’s too complicated to explain right now.”

“I’ll take a summary,”  she said, dry humor that he wished he could have appreciated more than he did. 

“The summary won’t help.”  Turning away from the porch and the sun, he followed the heat of the rock on his wrist back indoors, down the hall and toward his little girl.  Inside, he could hear her fussing, soft and hushed, still, but getting louder.  “Stiles and I dated, years ago—a long time ago, long before Peter and I knew each other.  He and Peter dated, briefly, when Peter was young, but that never went very far—Stiles helped Peter track me down, and he ended up taking over as emissary when control of the pack fell to Derek.  He’s family; he helped us when we were having trouble with Peter getting pregnant.”

The memory flashed bright behind his eyes of Stiles workroom at home in the middle of the night, the light of the moon on the mist hanging over the basin between the three of them.  Blood on the pen shell they’d used at the start of the ritual, blood in the water. 

The split second that all of them had noticed where the mist when it thickened had tried to wrap not just around his wrist and Peter's, but around Stiles’—the moment after, when Stiles had stepped back, and stopped it from catching him. 

What he might have said to Peter about it, alone, Chris didn’t know, but when he’d tried to bring it up the next day Stiles had only told him in that cool voice of his that gave away nothing that they’d talk about it when it was time, and that wouldn’t be while Peter was pregnant. 

Chris had thought in a few months, they might be sitting down for a serious talk between the three of them, about the past they’d had and the future they might.  He hadn’t expected that when he talked about this properly for the first time in even the vaguest way, it wouldn’t be to either of them. 

“Is it a problem that Peter wants to see him?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?  It’s not going to be crossing a line—“

“They work together; they’re best friends.  They’re alone together all the time, and they’re meeting in a hospital—and I trust Peter.”  

“You might, but I can’t help but notice you said that last.  If this is going to be a problem—“

“It isn’t; I’m tired, and Allison’s crying.”  It hadn’t quite escalated to cries, yet, but close enough.  In their room, he leaned over the crib, reaching down to lay his palm against her cheek, and let her nuzzle into it.  She was human, and beta, but she was still part Argent, and part Hale.  She wasn’t quite a normal human girl; she never would be.  “I’ll bring Stiles with the laundry tomorrow—and Cheyenne.  She’s his familiar; you can’t possibly argue she’ll be detrimental to his recovery.” 

“No, that’s perfectly fine.  I could look into getting a permit for him to keep her here—“

“No; he’d want her with Allison.  I just think they need to see each other, especially if I can’t.”  Allison’s legs kicked; impatient.  He needed to pick her up; he needed to walk her.  He could take her outside in the sun, and let her smell the breeze, and feel the heat.  “You told him, didn’t you, that I—everything I asked you to say?  That I’m not mad; this isn’t his fault and I want to bring him home?”

“I did.  He knows.” 

“I appreciate it.”  In thanking her, he managed to sound almost devoid of bitterness.  Almost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles was supposed to make an appearance in this chapter, but it got too long, and it worked best cutting it here. Next time, there will be Stiles :)
> 
> There will also be more about her in the next chapter, but for the curious, Cheyenne is an American English Coonhound, and she is a very good girl.


End file.
